


The Experiment

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Compromise, Control Issues, Dubious Consent, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gallows Humor, Humor, Imp!Rumple, Kink Negotiation, Love/Hate, Relationship Issues, The Dark One (Once Upon a Time), benefits/pitfalls of lying, mr gold - Freeform, nun-in-a-box, true to oneself, wee librarian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 16:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14814738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: There they went, his balls. Full retreat. This was always the way.(This thing sprawled just a little. It's part humor, part smut, part - maybe?- battle of the sexes.)





	The Experiment

“But, wait.” Belle said. Her brows drew together. Rumplestiltskin’s balls began an eerie creep to his body. “Didn’t you tell me you’d opened a path for the Fairies to go home?”

She blinked at him, a studious and unflinching vision of a young woman, completely confused between wanton sexuality and sainthood. She was a librarian yet lacked vocation.

Small, angry voices spilled from the elaborate, octagonal box which was also a hat. It also spilled scent; cold iron and moth dust. A loud-mouthed pirate who had – recently, and for no good reason – had his heart returned to his unworthy chest was on the verge of losing another hand. Or some other appendage.

For the tiniest moment Rumplestiltskin tried to act like he didn’t hear the little voices, a collective of nuns, all having huffed helium. Had he been alone, this small lapse of magic and pirate-judgment might have been funny. He could have smiled and waved while mice-like voices screeched, _Damn you, Rumplestiltskin!_

_Oh, la. Damn you too, dearie!_ A cheerful repast for the singing Imp within.

Lips pressed together, he raised his brows. Innocent people’s brows weren’t weighted down. Aiming for such innocence, he said, “Hmmm?”

But the wee librarian was not to be toyed with. Her starched collar and puffy cap-sleeves were somewhat given lie by her very short skirt and high heels that were surely made by the vile sea-witch who gifted the Little Mermaid with her painful land-legs. She stomped on of her heeled feet. Where her brows drew together, a stark crease appeared between them.

Oh, she was very cross. She put off heat.

He couldn’t think of a thing. Making up shite on the fly was a specialty of his, along with the random flinging of lurid dreams and the trick of earnestly agreeing with someone, so urgently sincere, they began to doubt themselves. It always brought a smile.

His specialty failed him and he held up his hands, palms up. Knowing it was a mistake even as he did it, he smiled broadly.

“I lied.” He confessed. He spoke the words in a happy, sheepish way. Maybe she would find him cute.

Wrong. Rumplestiltskin began a series of duck and cover maneuvers as Belle threw things at him. _His_ things; _rude_. She was red-faced, frowning, seriously put-out. Saddened, his mind forcasted to a planned evening of red wine and Belle playing Naughty Nurse. It was never to be.

He dodged a globe that had some dangerous, off-kilter and spinning heft. “Oi! Manners, missy! You could put an eye out.” Or brain a bloke, whatever.

“ _Manners_?” Belle’s voice was loud and outraged. A sharp-edged accent slipped into it. “You’ve got my friends trapped… Who knows where! And you give me that _sneering_ smile?”

“I did _not_ sneer.” He hadn’t meant to sneer. Sometimes it just happened.

“And _cheerfully_ tell me you lied?”

“Well. I was honest about that, wasn’t I.” There.

“Oh, Rumplestiltskin. Why?”

There they went, his balls. Full retreat. This was always the way. She became almightily, righteously pissed, which he felt he could handle. It was not his wish to rile Belle; hence the _lying,_ he wanted to point out in a reasonable tone. Still, he sometimes found her fits enjoyable. She was cute as a button. He was a small man, but she was a thimble. Even if she came up swinging, he dodged and grinned at her, feeling the dance was nearly foreplay. He bounced a little.

But then the turn, as predictable now as the perennial blindness of the Charmings. The trick-lock of envy he could so easily spring in Regina.

She was disappointed. Gravely. He’d let her down… Again.

Lacking balls and feeling a tremble in his belly, he asked, “Why what, dearie?”

“Why must you lie? To _me_?”

“Well, the truth upsets you so.”

“What kind of an answer is that? What kind of a man are you? Are you a child?”

Ugh. Why, Indeed? Why must she confuse him all the bloody time? Why must she cover her breasts in puritanical blouses and sweaters, only to reveal a nakedness of leg that terminated in the shoes of the Devil’s Mistress? She came at him with her warm hugs, her hands buried in the hair at his nape, grasping it, her tongue as invasive as his. It seemed a certainty she must have an attraction to Darkness, and he grew comfortable with the notion. He relaxed into himself. That’s when things always went wrong.

He could feel her working up a head of team, huffy little tea-kettle. She was bolstering herself to leave his comfortable home and go shack-up at Granny’s. It was his cue to dissolve, quickly and startlingly to tears. To beg forgiveness for his evil ways and to be pet by her sweet hands while she crooned to him that she knew he was _good._ His heart was true.

Well, it _was_ true, in fact. But, it was pretty fucking damaged. Other parts of himself had to compensate.

The tears, when they would come, were always real. They sprang from sheer panic. He didn’t know what she wanted and couldn’t bear to lose her. It had been hard enough the first time, when he’d driven her off himself.

But, now… The tears wouldn’t come. He stood before her in his shop, flustered but dry-eyed. Belly shook, but bottom lip did not. He glanced at the little box of muffled voices… she would want him to release them. Her friends. Of course, she was friends with Fairies. Bloody nuns. She was friends with everyone. She wasn’t always quick to note their more loathsome qualities, a quirk which had likely worked in his favor.

A snippet of song from this realm came to him: _I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul_.

Meeting her gaze, a blue-eyed, imploring tempest that was both anger and sorrow, he said, “I’m a bad man, dearie. I thought we’d long established that.”

His voice was edged with impatience and it made her eyes turn hard. Glassy. In her head, she was packing her bags. She was avoiding the I-told-you-so’s of heroes and abused pirates. She was feeling bad for Fairies and other maligned bitches.

“No.” she shook her head. “We never _established_ that, Rumple. You and I are not a contract. I never agreed to your darkness.”

Rubbish. “We began as a contract, and it was forever. I released to from that contract.” Bloody mistake. They would never be done renegotiating.

“Because you were afraid. Because you couldn’t let go of your power.”

“ _Ah_.” He tick-tocked a forefinger at her. It made her curl her lip, just a little. “Indeed. I told you the truth; I loved my power more than anything else. You didn’t believe me. When I’m truthful, you either don’t believe me or don’t like me. I lie to spare your feelings, and you hate me for lying. What is it you want from me?”

“To start; let them go. They’ve done no harm.”

He’d warmed up to himself. His balls were back. He didn’t want Belle to leave him… he dreaded the idea. But, this constant denial of self. Turning himself inside-out to be what she wanted, yet always failing. The constant threat of her departure should he lie. Reduced to tears and begging, which made him hate himself. He hated the part she claimed to love, a part she didn’t even know.

A snarl appeared on his face, he felt it. His teeth were bared for her, and she gave a look of – _Oh. Really_. She crossed her arms over her virgin’s chest and made a wider stance of her slut legs. Was it an invitation? Clearly this girl knew not what she wanted.

A soft growl in his hushed voice, he said, “Oh, they’ve done harm enough, Belle. You’d do well to keep your nose out of things you know nothing about. I will certainly _not_ release them.”

“That’s it.” Belle announced. “I’ve had it.”

And so have I, thought Rumplestiltskin.

Belle turned on her pointed heel, a secretarial allegro in her prim yet sex-kitten costume.

For one giddy, uncertain moment, Rumplestiltskin’s hand hovered, magic at the ready and yet motionless. What was he doing? What was he going to do? A little bubble of laughter blurted from his throat, not evil so much as incredulous. It stopped Belle; she turned to look at him, eyes a little spooked. The scent of honey and storms filled his shop.

He snapped his fingers.

Fucking hell. He’d done it.

 

 

“I can’t believe you! I can’t believe you’d do this! You must know we’re done… _Done_ , Rumple! _This_ -“

He waved a hand and she was promptly gagged. He was cat-nervous, whisker-twitchy. All this chatter wouldn’t do. Her eyes blazed and her voice made angry, muffled sounds, not unlike a wee nun-in-a-box.

He couldn’t believe it, either. There she was. What had he done?

He’d strung her up in his basement, that’s what. He’d let her wait out the last part of his working day, harnessed in the air by an on-the-fly, magic’d contraption of ropes and pulleys. It had assembled itself, no trip to the hardware store required. Winches, what-not. It was rather elaborate and a shocking thing to come home to.

She appeared to be seated in mid-air, a wide, spread-legged and unladylike position, but no chair supported her. Her arms and legs were held up and apart by ropes. Straps bolstered about her torso. Straps encircled her legs just beneath her bum and under her knees. Her legs, from the knees down, dangled. She was in a somewhat forward lean.

It was better than Naughty Nurse, actually, but for her wild protests and his certainty that her release would lead to his doom. She’d have Nolan take him out back and simply shoot him. Repeatedly, since his magic wouldn’t let him die. Would this mean he could never release her? A feeling of wildness rode over him. Giddiness. He should have done this ages ago, in the days when hed had an actual dungeon and when Charming was still rolling in hay and smelling of sheep. Wearing pig-tails.

Her short skirt, in her newly compromised position, was rucked all up her hips. Exposed was the creamy curve of arse and hip, edged in a thin hem of pale blue lace that was the boundary of her panties. Clear as a bell, pussy lips pouted against the cotton gusset. Gravity did it’s beautiful, diligent work.

“What a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” He murmured. He gazed upon her with frank lust; a ripe, lush offering.

Voice in an inarticulate outrage around her gag, her body went into a frenzy of wild squirming and rocking. Ropes shook and pulleys clanged, but all held. He had to smile. She only made her situation worse, cheeks flushed and hair falling in her face. Her blouse came partially untucked and her _panties_ … gods. They cleaved to arse-crack, exposing more arse, now a-jiggle.

He scented… arousal? Was this wishful thinking?

One high heel dangled from her toes. He strode to his imperiled mistress and removed it, then removed the other. He held the bottom of her delicate foot warmly in one hand, encircling her ankle with the other. He stood close to the core of her, inhaling.

Had the literal hanging around and waiting turned her on? Or perhaps it was just physiological, the wide-legged position that cinched her panties up against sensitive parts. The exposure, the unknown.

Still holding her ankle, he lifted his other hand and stroked the backs of his fingers against the gusset of her panties. Such heat. She flailed about some more, voice angry, but she couldn’t deny certain truths. They were simply there, out in the open, spoken by her body. Heat. Dampness. Inflammation.

Well.

Rumplestiltskin let off touching her and swaggered to his desk, removing his jacket and tie. The desk was a big, elaborate thing, full of nooks and cubbies. It was devoid of bills, tax statements or anything so mundane. It was filled with potions, magical objects, spells-in-waiting. With a thought, he caused its surface to suddenly display an array of toys. He looked at them, musing. He rolled up his shirtsleeves.

He looked over his shoulder at angry, suspended Belle and arched a brow. “Toys.” He said aloud, sweeping his hand theatrically over the display. “For good girls and boys.”

Belle’s eyes were saucers. He picked up a riding crop, a flap of leather-slapper at its end. Smiling, he waved it at her like a wand. She shook her head, muffled voice saying, “ _Mmmnnphh mph_!”

Approaching, he fondled the implement.

“No use arguing, dearie. Now that I’ve decided to play, there’s no stopping. Don’t you feel we are past due the point when you realize – You are attracted to darkness? This untidy business of constantly trying to fish goodness out of me… it has everything to do with how you feel about yourself and little to do with how you feel about me.”

“ _Mm-mn_!”

“Oh, but I’m right. You’ve been a bad girl, Belle. You know you’re a bad girl, and you’re trying to deflect it all on me, then redeem me. It’s exhausting, dearie. I love you, but I must be who I am. There is no other. And I’m afraid I _must_ punish you for being so bad a girl and causing me such distress.”

He held her ankle again. She swung her leg, but – secured as she was – he was in no real danger of being kicked upside the head. He brought the slapper to her inner thigh, a soft caress and then a loud, stinging slap.

Immediately, a welt of angry red arose. It shocked Rumplestiltskin, the reality of it. It filled him with antsy satisfaction. Belle’s voice, loud, the thrash of her body satisfied him. He did it again, a steady tease between pain and softness. Some slaps were sharp stings, burns upon previous welts. He felt sympathy when water stood in eyes, yet he wasn’t done.

Some slaps weren’t even slaps. They were feather touches. Close to her crotch, a tickle about the knee. A time or two he patted soft slaps against her sex, watching her hips buck. Then the slaps were hard again, blows that cracked to the jiggle of her bum, to the backs of her thighs.

Overcome with lust and scent, he moved close and pulled the crotch of her panties to the side.

“ _Dearie_.” He drawled.

She was soaking, so wet. Her vulva was puffy and red. She shone with wetness.

“It seems obvious that your pussy likes darkness.” He smiled up to her aggrieved face. “It likes bad men. It may be yourself, Belle, that you need to make peace with.”

With that, he dropped the crop to the floor. Hands splayed at her abused inner thighs, he plunged his long, greedy tongue inside her. Her body shook, as did his. A nettlish-sweet taste swelled his tongue. With a moan, he laved over her swollen parts then thrust inside her again. Her voice escalated, going from angry to desperate. Her hips jerked.

Impatient, Rumplestiltskin gestured with magic so that she was completely naked, completely vulnerable. Her voice protested and he didn’t care.

He’d been so hungry for this. Control. A way for his need for Belle to howl its darker howl, predatory and possessive, holding little to nothing back. He felt unmuzzled, surprised to realize he was the maker of his own muzzle. He’d done it to himself.

Unmuzzled, unleashed, he turned his head and bit against her inner thigh. He’d leave a mark. Her voice had changed. Her harsh attempts at speech had changed to whimpers and cries. Her hips rocked within her cat’s cradle of rope, the hot kitty at the center of it all needy.

Even greedy. Her greed further aroused him, and he stroked soft fingers over wet, velvety flesh. He penetrated her, one finger then two, lips parted, his tongue pressed to his bottom row of teeth. He was nearly panting, breath shallow and dimly aware of chest pain.

In and out, slow, feeling her body squeeze. He looked up at her face, shadowed by her hair. Gods. What he’d _done._ The back of his mind had already begun casting a wide net, wondering if he could- if he would – erase or alter her memory of his actions. Would he dare? It was her _mind_ , after all; it was her. And he would be left to carry yet another secret.

Her eyes were closed, her face tear-stained. Over the gag, she took deep breaths through her nose, huffed them out. A low moan settled in her throat.

“That’s it.” he said, voice soft.

There was something like a trance in effect; he didn’t want to break it. All of Belle’s awareness seemed honed down to her sex, to his fingers in her pussy, the sensations they made through her pelvis, her limbs.

He quickened his pace, a fast thrust. He watched color burn in her cheeks, bloom over her chest. Her nipples were darkened and hard and he reached a hand to caress the underside of one breast. Fingers sliding down the center of her belly, he planted pursed lips on the engorged bud that was her clitoris.

There was panic in the rise of her voice. Crisis. He knew the sound and knew it was not protest. Her hips jolted forward and he responded in kind with a wet, feverish suckle. A blood kiss, lips and tongue soft but insistent, his fingers thrusting, knuckles wet and feral with musk.

Her whole body shook when she came. The rope contraption shook. She became too tight for his fingers. After orgasm, she usually brought her knees together… her body became protective of itself, curling in, something of a frightened child emerging with the casting off of so much energy.

Now, she hadn’t the option. Rumplestiltskin stood back a little, hands firm on her thighs. She’d become so hot, but after climax she began to goosebump and chill. Her thighs strained to close, muscles in relief as they struggled with rope. Fascinated, he watched a pulse-like contraction at her pussy. Her clit jumped, even as it shrank back. She wept.

For a time he listed to the soft hiccup of her weeping. He stroked her legs, placed soft kisses on her sex. Moving to kiss her lower belly, its apricot softness, he motioned with his hand and removed her gag. Her intake of breath was a sound of trauma. He closed his eyes.

“I can’t believe you.” She whispered.

But… His eyes opened. He’d aroused her more than he’d ever known himself to do. He’d brought her to violent orgasm; he was hot and gloried in her pleasure, even as he denied his own. Surely this improved his status, at least a little.

His hands rose in a brief fondle of swaying bosom, then he strode to the desk, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He was so hot; clothing was becoming an irritant. Retrieving a handkerchief from his jacket, he returned and lowered the ropes so he and Belle were face to face. Holding the handkerchief to her nose, he said, “Blow.”

For a moment it seemed she might want to deny even this basic need, as if a snotty nose was a sign of triumphant defiance. Then she acquiesced. Her eyes closed and she gave a hearty blow.

“There you go, dearie. Good girl.”

Her eyes opened in her blue glare. Tricky, tricky, tricky. So difficult to navigate. He’d said those very words, before, his body over hers, taking her from behind. Mouth at her velvety ear, he’d murmured, _good girl_ , and he’d felt her respond. Once, when she’d lifted her hips, pressing back against him, _taking_ him, he’d gone rather wild inside. He’d grasped her hair in his fist and rasped, _yes, fuck me… good girl, sweet bitch._

She’d responded to that, too. _So much_. She’d squirmed until she was on top, astride, and had ridden him in a mad, writhing fury until he’d all but exploded into her, control lost. If ever it had existed.

But, let him say such things outside of the immediacy of the moment. She wouldn’t have it.

She didn’t speak, but her eyes said things he’d heard her say before. _I’m not a girl. I’m not a bitch, I’m not your dog._ More than anything, _I don’t belong to you, or to anyone._

Sometimes these were angry words, but often she spoke as if she were educating the mildly retarded. She was gentle. She tried to bring him up to speed.

_I love you, but that doesn’t mean you own me. I belong to myself. Don’t you see, Rumple? Isn’t that okay_?

No. No, it wasn’t fucking okay. He belonged to her. She owned him, as sure as if she held his balls in a gentle-but-firm grip. Lack of ownership brought about a nauseating feeling of insecurity. He wanted to ask how she’d feel if he went about town, un-owned and available to whomever would have him.

She would probably laugh. Who would have him? In her peculiar innocence, he got the feeling she might not care. Her ideas of ownership and belonging were more subtle than sex; they were ideas of one’s spirit, one’s essence. Her notions of love were both deeper than and yet far more airy than sex.

She didn’t make anything easy.

“Does this make you feel better?” she asked, her eyes puffy but level. “Have you managed to eliminate your fears of my judgment, my opinions? I can’t very well reject or leave if I’m tied up in the basement. Can I?”

He pressed his lips to hers, still hot, though her body cooled. Like her eyes, her lips were puffy. Abused by the gag.

With a nod he admitted, “Aye. That was part of my thinking.”

Belle closed her eyes and sighed, disappointed in him. Again. Still. It was a little irritating. She was naked, strung up… an angry little snarl who had nevertheless been made to come in a showy way. What right had she to display a sort of dignity? To look down on him?

Opening her eyes, she asked, “What was the other part of your thinking?”

Ah. This elevated him. This was a more level field.

“Your denial of darkness, Belle.” She looked away from him, a fairly disgusted look of – _this; again_. He continued, “I don’t expect you to embrace evil. I know who you are, and you wouldn’t be you if you delighted in my every foul act. All the same, you know who I am and have from the start. You saw my dungeons and the blood within. You saw the body count. You… wanted me anyway. Because I can comfort you, I can make you laugh and make you see yourself as I see you, you choose to pretend that you don’t know my darkness. That you don’t see. I can’t change, Belle.”

“You won’t, you mean.”

“That’s right.” He agreed. “I won’t, dearie. I’ve no wish to. But you don’t seem to understand that you’ve always wanted that part of me.” He stood close. He touched her, soft and intimate. Holding her eyes, he said, “It makes you wet.”

He was right. He knew he was right.

“… Maybe…”

Rumplestiltskin felt his eyes light. His fingertip played at her slick opening, his thumb was a soft kiss at her clit. Her lips parted and she inhaled.

“Maybe I am _twisted_ in that way.” she said, and his light dimmed. “That doesn’t make it right. That doesn’t mean I’m going to say, ‘oh-the hell with it. I’ll just stop looking for the good man I know is in there. I’ll just fuck the monster, instead.’”

It did something to Rumplestiltskin. An _if only_ surge went through his body. It worked him, as his rough voice at Belle’s ear worked her. He was unaccustomed to profanity on her lips, generally, and certainly any language regarding the fucking of monsters.

His arousal became so fierce it was an acute pain, a shock down the center of his body, unknown pelvic muscles bearing down with want. “Oh.” He said. He was a little breathless. He was unaccustomed to profanity one her lips, generally. Certainly he was unaccustomed to any language regarding fucking monsters.

They stared at one another, certainly at an impasse, he thought. The same impasse as ever it was; the one they couldn’t get around. A little stunned by the effect of her words, he said, “Well, dearie. How about this?”

Both of his hands moved down his own body, fingertips raking the air from crown to hip. Magic continued a path down to the floor. He felt himself transform.

As it happened, he saw Belle transform as well. Her eyes sparked with fear, and yet with the familiar. The devil she knew… the welcoming of a tribe or family. He felt her soften, even at an arm’s length. Even fearful.

A cordial monster, he steepled his fingertips together and lavished a look of pure greed over her naked body. Now, _this_ was being unmuzzled. _This_ was not holding back. He felt the bloodlust of a prowling beast, long caged in Storybrooke. Its hunger was frightful.

He smiled and Belle blushed, newly aware of her own skin, her vulnerability and graphic exposure. He felt the abrupt sensitivity of her flesh; he was sensitive, too.

“Hello, dearie.” Said the Imp.

 

 

 

 

“What now, Rumplestiltskin?” Belle asked, her voice full of shaky nerves.

“What now. What now.” He mused. His gaze leched. “Who can say? The world is full of mysteries, dearie.”

He took a turn around the basement, fairly well appointed for not being a true dungeon or a tower devoted to all things magic. Everything from common snake oil to – goodness; embalming fluid? But no, it was a potion rather than a preservative, probably to do with a sleeping curse. Lordy, but these things became tiresome. All of the bigger efforts, the grand shows had become tiresome, so that he really only wished for bits and scraps of magic. A fetch of air, a glitter of fancy. A wee slap and tickle, perhaps.

But _look_ at this place, this world. Big houses and vehicles, both meant to hold mammoth television screens and monitors. Tiny, talky-boxes. Boxes without topses, spellbinding and soul suckling. People just never stopped being weird.

Seeing and again becoming cognizant of the desk full of toys, he clapped his hands and did a little hop. A small goblin in a candy store. _I am him, he is me_ , but the transition was a little disorienting.

“Oh!” he saw phallic things and whipping things, tickling things and naughty, pleasure-pain things. Things meant only to produce a feeling of insecurity, as if hanging like spider betrayed by its own web didn’t do the trick. He looked at Belle, aglow with warm, feel-good feelings. “Goody.”

But, first thing first. She’d had hers, the calculating wench. Enough of this topping from the bottom, this sneaky, behind the scenes control. An undercover agent, this slip of a girl. She was very good.

His Imp’s clothes were a far better thing than this world’s sad suits and useless knickers, but his leather had an almighty hold on his eager dick which wished to be melancholy no more. Propping a foot on the seat of the chair, he began undoing boot laces that went from toe to thigh.

The clothes were better, but a tad cumbersome.

“What are you doing?”

He made a face. Was she not brighter than this? “What does it look like, dearie?”

“No. You’re not. _We’re_ not.”

Pausing in his task, he fixed her with a smile and licked his fingertip. He made counting strokes in the air. “Wrong and wrong. Could it be you don’t find me attractive?” His R rolled. He pouted, hurt, hand splayed to chest. He made a quick recovery. “Not to fret, sweetness. You’re attractive enough for the both of us.”

He resumed his laces, wondering if he might resort to magic before it was through. Still, he was rather enjoying the delay. Belle’s discomfort, be it trepidation or anticipation. He still tasted her, and that was a fine, strange thing. Let her look upon his bum while he bent to his overdone boots, arse-cheeks snug in leather. In his man-form, she’d assured him he had a cute butt. If she behaved, maybe he’d wiggle it.

Fingers busy, he said, “You kissed me in this guise before, dearie. Remember, hmm? It was to this dashing face that you declared your love. _True_ love, no less. Of course, you were a prisoner at the time, and busy fancying yourself a curse-buster. It’s a sweet memory, your hustling all about, cleavage and a broom, so helpful. I suppose you were waiting for the monster to disappear before giving your body to the man.” He favored her with another fearsome smile. “A little shallow, don’t you think? Would you say your love only went skin-deep?”

“You know that’s not so, Rumple.”

“’Rumple’, is it? How affectionate. You’re so sweet. Makes me want to fuck you.”

“But –“

“You want it up the _butt_? Now, that’s adventurous of you, dearie. You must have learned a thing or two since your days as a maid.”

“No, I –“

“No? You’ve learned nothing? In all this time? Oh, dearie, dear.” He tsked, his face sad.

At last he was out of his boots. In quick order he divested himself of waistcoat, girlishly fancy tunic, leather trousers and stockings. Some of the wardrobe lacked a certain, manly quality, but then – there he was, in all his glory. He might not be a man, but there could be no doubting his masculinity.

He struck something of a matador’s pose, held out his arms and said, “ _Ta-da_!”

Belle looked. He enjoyed the feel of her long look. Only fair, really. Poor thing all strung up, bobs and bits out for all to see. Arse in no position whatsoever to clench. She’d never seen him naked in this form, and her eyes warred between curiosity and – possibly – terror. Both pleased him. He lowered his arms and brought one hand to stroke the troubled and turbulent thing that was his huge erection. He felt awash in pride.

“Is everything in working order? Will it do? Does it meet with your standards, lovey? Your approval? Would you like to check it for strength and durability?” He let go of his cock and felt it spring up, then bob. He considered hypnotizing her with it.

“But –“

“Truly, dearie. This new obsession with the butt. It’s a little alarming. If it’s your wish, however, I can certainly make it come true. For, surely you – such a _good_ creature – are worthy of your happy ending.”

“I can’t, Rumple. You can’t.” she was not so very articulate, and a little tearful.

He came close, studying her with a curious head-tilt. He held the ropes with both hands, moving her like a swing. Her pussy, as wet as he’d ever known the little morsel to be, slid in tantalizing ways over the length of his cock. Each caught his or her breath, and Rumplestiltskin marveled over the rope contraption. His magic was genius. Holding the ropes, all it took was the slightest knee-bend and he was lined up nicely.

“Again, wrong on both counts.” He said, softly and not unkindly. “Why don’t you try kissing me again, Belle. I’ve heard if your love is true, you can break the curse.”

She blurted a little sob. “Don’t make fun of me. Don’t _toy_ with me. I know you’ve made an illusion, and I know you’re the Dark One, even when you look like a man.”

Cocking his head, he gave her a significant look. “ _You_ said it, dearie.” He moved her in her slow swing… at any second, he might slip inside the glove of her, snug as a bug in a rug. It made him feel both hot and cold, all at once. His lynx-eyes were both secretive and yet wide with glee.

“You know what I mean.” Belle frowned, flushed. “You choose to be that way. To give in.”

Rumplestiltskin gave an enormous roll of his eyes, exasperation clear.

“And you like it. I’m bad, you like it and feel bad about liking it. Have we gone over the lesson enough times? I’ve always taken you for a clever girl, Belle. And anyway, I’m not _all_ bad. You know it to be true. I can be kind, I can love. You just can’t accept that a monster can do those things. What if I hadn’t started to change when you first _hurled_ yourself at me, hmmm? Eh? Would you have kept kissing me anyway, just for the feeling, the pleasure of it? With no curse-breaking agenda?”

“I don’t know.”

“It would have been better.” Rumplestiltskin murmured, suddenly certain. “If you’d kissed me and found me unchanged. You might have realized, there and then, with whom you’d fallen in love. You might have accepted me, whole.”

At that, Belle’s eyes flared. Bloody hell, but she wouldn’t give it up. She blurted, “You’re not whole! You’re… _fragmented_! How many of you are _in_ there?”

Fuck it. He glared back. He could glare all the live-long day, if that was her thing. He could glare without blinking, out-glare a cat.

He kept her gaze a long while, sometimes moving the ropes and feeling the shivery feeling in his body, the acute, needy feeling at his pelvis. His balls were making demands. He let go of the ropes and began to circle her. He held her angry eyes for as long as his stalk would allow. He came to stand behind her, feeling touched and overwhelmed by the view. It was not so graphic, not as gratifyingly explicit as her front view, but she was… helpless. Utterly helpless. She seemed more so from the back, suspense showing at her nape, something delicate, fragile in the sculpture of her shoulder blades, in the shadowy small of her back. Something deer-like and fine, breakable about her winnows and curves, her lines. He raked his fingertips down her back, from her nape to her tailbone; she trembled beneath his touch. His hand lingered, fingers feeling about the curves of her bum, the split of her body. Sensitive flesh both wet and soft; further behind, puckered and silky, some places nearly as smooth as glass. He delighted in her gasp, her shock that he touched her in forbidden places.

Belle’s breath came in shallow pants. A river of goosebumps followed his hand’s path along her back, over her thighs.

He gripped hard at the flesh of her hip and thigh. He would leave bruises, and perhaps linger over them, later. Lips at her ear, he whispered, “There are enough of us in here to keep you satisfied, dearie, seeing as you haven’t the foggiest as to what you want. But, _we_ all know.”

He couldn’t wait any longer. He rubbed against her, rutting with heat, then thrust into from behind.

He wasn’t fussy; he loved fucking Belle any way he could get it. But, this… in his heart of hearts, his loin of loins, this had always been his favorite. The first time he’d done it to her, he couldn’t really believe she let him.

He’d tried so hard to restrain himself. _She’s too sweet_ , he’d thought. _Too pretty_. Too sensitive, newly released from the nuthouse by the Hatter; he was going to scare the devil out of her. He’d cared for her, was careful of her. What he’d done to her in his bed was loving, lovemaking, and not a lie in the least.

But then, he couldn’t help it. Lust rode his blood like a demon and he’d needed her in an animal way. It was like he couldn’t get enough, would never get enough. With strength he hadn’t realized he’d possessed, he’d flipped her over. He’d pulled her to her knees, inflamed by the sight of her that way. All gentleness gone, he’d fucked her from behind until he was blind, shaking, teeth on edge.

The shock was that she’d liked it, wanted it. He’d grabbed and pulled her hair. He’d slapped her bum. He’d done things he’d thought he might regret, later. The head of his bed had hammered to the wall, and a framed picture had come crashing to the floor.

She’d liked it, wanted it. All of it. Darkness raged inside him and rode him like a devil of depravity and violation, and she’d liked it. She’d liked her own helplessness within his storm. It had been… educational.

It held true, still. His hands moved up her body, one clamped onto a warm handful of breast, her nipple a hot spoke to his palm. His other hand closed over her throat and his hips pounded, forward and up. The head of his cock stretched her opening, then was swallowed. He thrust, his breathing harsh, vision hazy, lost in the feeling, the sound of her cries. His face buried to her hair. He wanted it to go on forever.

 

 

 

 

Capering naked was a new thing. Striking poses and doing little dances. His cock became a toy, an amusement. It was like a tassel, swinging and twirling around in a way that was comedic, but which also seemed to catch and hold Belle’s eye. And that was when it was soft.

Hard, erect… her pupils dilated and her lips parted.

She whined, “Let me _down_ , Rumple. My muscles are sore. My ribs ache. You’re going to have to let me _pee_. I don’t think I have any circulation in my arms and legs. You can’t keep me here forever.”

Yes, yes, yes. He waved his fingers at her. All true, but still… her pupils dilated, her lips parted. I was food for thought. He considered rearranging her, sliding his cock into her mouth. Positions, all compromising, flooded his mind’s eye, leaving him feeling quite shaken.

“ _Rumple_.” It was the tired snivel of an overwrought child.

Hmm. He considered. Letting her go just didn’t seem plausible at this stage. He settled on collaring her.

“A l _eash_?” Once it became clear, Belle was aghast. Incensed. “You’re putting me on a _leash_?”

“I can’t have you roaming, willy-nilly, Belle. Drinking from the toilet and piddling in the corners.”

“ _Rumplestiltskin_!”

“That’s my name, lovey. _Dovey_. Say it three times and I’ll kidnap your first-born for fun and profit, regardless. I have a reputation to uphold.” He giggled at his own humor. Plus, it was all a little funny, in between some shockingly intense moments. Both of them naked, Belle wobbling on sea-legs and led on a leash. She didn’t seem all that amused.

The bathroom mirror was sobering. It was rather bright, and – ye gods. There he was. Hook’s Crocodile, The Dark One of the Enchanted Forest, Fairy-bane and Goblin Extraordinaire. He’d somewhat forgotten his greenish cast, its glimmer and shadow. Not the prettiest teeth that ever were. (Which summoned the pirate again to mind, intrusive scoundrel. Fucking white teeth. He should knock one loose with his cane and give Captain Cock a gap-tooth grin.)

Belle’s arms were folded over her chest, which seemed bizarre to Rumplestiltskin. At this point, how could there be anything to hide? He risked a peek at the mirror, again. His own nudity was different in this skin, less vulnerable. That’s what it was; she felt vulnerable. As he’d wished. A twinge of remorse made an uncomfortable feeling in his throat. With a weird smile, he swallowed it down.

“Go on about your business, dearie.”

“What?” Belle’s eyes narrowed a moment, but then pierced him with yet more vulnerability. She was flushed and upset.

He waggled his fingers. “Go on, do what you need to do. I’ll turn my back, if you like.”

“But..”

“Oh, dearie. Not again. Have you been feeling unhappy in the bedroom? Exploring online? Hmm?”

“Rumplestiltskin, shut-up.”

“Manners, dearie. Take your tinkle. Chop-chop.”

 

 

 

Belle said she wanted a bath. Well. He _had_ made things rather messy, her own fluids and his on her thighs, both of them sporting a less-than-fresh look about the pubic hair. Still. He fondled the leash. This urge to care for her and indulge her, to make the pained, little-girl look around her eyes go away; it was interfering with things.

“Now?” he asked, stalling.

Her eyes were stone. “I feel _dirty_.”

Oh, bloody hell. With the guilt? Must she? Who trained her in this womanly art? She was so fucking good at it. He felt wrong and rotten; she was ruining Non-Naughty-Nurse night.

Rumplestiltskin was aware Belle had not volunteered herself to be tied up. No, she was not exactly a willing participant. But, damn it. She liked the things he did to her. That he controlled, he took. It drove her blood.

She liked the bloody Dark One. When would she just admit it? When would she just accept him so they could move on with life?

With a sigh he released the Imp, uncertain if he was any more comfortable with his reflection. The Imp wasn’t truly released, but rather he coiled back inside, always there. A man once more, Rumplestiltskin’s body seemed as vulnerable as Belle’s. He leaned over, one hand braced on the edge of the tub, turning on spigots and getting the temperature right. He felt the vulnerability in the lean, his bare backside and the swing of dangling things. He felt his damaged leg.

“Must I have the leash?”

Disgusted with himself, the way he caved, Rumplestiltskin growled and flung his hand spitefully, making both collar and leash disappear. Why must she always win? It was like he couldn’t help himself.

She was mistaken if she thought she was leaving, though. He’d keep her trapped with magic if he couldn’t make himself keep her tied up. This girly business of running off to Granny’s every time she caught sight of a speck of evil had to stop. And he would _not_ release the Fairies.

“Scooch.” He told her, and she moved forward in the tub so he could settle behind. Like her first sighting of the Imp this evening, there was familiarity in it. She allowed it; she even seemed relieved by it, despite all he’d done.

She lay back against his chest and they were quiet. His hands stroked her body.

Finally, she murmured, “I feel your heartbeat.”

“Aye?”

He moved one hand up, briefly cupped her left breast and then settled over her heart. Her heartbeat was strong. Rumplestiltskin began to feel a little dreamy. Submerged in warm water, Belle’s skin a slippery, silky feeling to his. The bathroom seemed a cavernous, echoing place. He closed his eyes, and the drip of water from the faucet seemed the dripping of water in a deep cave. Walls that concealed pipes. Movement like the bloodstream. He became aware of his own heartbeat and that it was entraining itself to hers.

She was in the fucking lead.

She said, “I don’t know what’s to become of us.”

His eyes opened.

“We’ll be together, Belle.”

“I don’t know. I still can’t believe all that’s happened, all you’ve done.”

Just tonight, he wondered? Or was his long and bloody past intruding upon her affection? And, if it was, why didn’t it when she first declared her love, a witness to his misdeeds?

He began a pattern of cupping water in one hand and letting it spill over her chest, a gentle splash over her heart that made streams around her breast. He infused a very subtle, almost-nothing little magic into it, wishing to keep her calm.

Which one of those idiots said the thing about having to resort to magic to keep a loved one with you? Or… had he said it? Shite.

He pet her, soft, watery touches and caresses. He treated her as he might a spooked animal, keeping his voice hushed.

“Belle… you liked so much of what happened tonight. You can’t say otherwise. Your body showed me.”

“That’s just sex, Rumple. Bodies are stupid.”

“Not so. Feelings, _truths_ settle into the physical. They have expression, there. They change things, whether good or bad. There is truth in how you respond to me, even the darker parts of me. Your words reflect what you think you _should_ feel. Your body tells me the truth.”

Her head rolled on his chest, negating his words. Bony skull on bony chest.

“No. It’s just nerves and blood and mindlessness. Sex is not the glue holding us together.”

The Imp rose up a bit. Rumplestiltskin snorted, and said, “Then what’s all that sticky stuff?”

He could feel Belle suppress a smile. He knew she tucked her lips between her teeth. He considered it the smallest of wins.

“You’re an idiot.” She informed him.

He let it go, still pouring warm water over her heart. No, he thought. She was wrong. It was true that his cock could be a complete dunce. The quality was passed onto his brain in his cock’s demand for its share of the blood supply. But it was also true that things… imprinted. There was something, some little twist or turn inside of Belle that that made her recognize something she knew, she needed in him. It wasn’t just that she could see the good. If she wanted a good man, she could likely take her campaign out to the street. At least one of the fools who fell at her feet was bound to be good.

Something within him spoke to something within her. She must have felt it even when she agreed to their initial contract. He knew it because he felt it, himself. Often, he felt it through sex, where he was more free to _feel_ , but which she felt compelled to dismiss. Why?

He brought his hands to her breasts, a warm fondle.

“Rumple, what are you doing?”

“Supporting you, dearie.”

Belle sighed. It made her swell into his hands and he squeezed, reflexively. “I have a proposal.” He said.

“This should be good.”

“Don’t sass. My proposal is this: You stay with me and we carry on as a couple. Tonight can be called an experiment, and perhaps you can give me the satisfaction of admitting that some of the points I’ve made are valid. And – in the future – if I feel the need to make these points again, I’ll ask your permission to tie you up.”

It was reasonable. Surely, it was. He was letting her take the reins, as usual. Really, he should have kept the leash. Something to counterbalance the way she led him around by the dick.

Belle considered, her every breath filling his hands with bosom in a way that – yes – was making him stupid.

She said, “I’ll accept your proposal, Rumplestiltskin, _if_ you release the Fairies.”

Oh, mother fucker. Obstinate, hard-headed, mule-heeled and fucking _prissy_ librarian. It would cost him, and dearly. It wasn’t something he would be able to lie to her about. Bloody hell, he was going to do it.

His body tensed beneath hers, part of him wishing he’d left her hanging. For the duration. He needed to spank her some more, anyway, Fuck’s sake, he’d barely touched any of the toys. This was robbery.

A growl escaped his chest, and he said, “Why must you win at everything? Why must you always get your own way?”

Belle sat up. Water-slick breasts slipped from his hands, but not before he gave one nipple a significant pinch. Bad, back-talking, know-it-all nipple, always getting in the last word. A naysayer and a tyrant.

Belle gave his pinching fingers a little slap and Rumplestiltskin considered the small and large hurts they’d done one another. Hurts that could and did exist within the scope of love. Nothing was black and white.

She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes filled with the assurance of She Who Is On Top. “Because I’m a woman.” She answered him.

They stared at one another. Rumplestiltskin’s hands felt fidgety. This was going to require some small revenge. His teeth set, thinking of setting his enemies free. His heart yearned to Belle, regardless, even to the annoying triumph in her eyes. As did his cock.

Husky-voiced, he said, “May I have your permission to tie you up in the basement and mistreat you?”

The self-assurance in Belle’s eyes softened into something… willing. Her mouth quirked at the corners. Happily, nastily, Rumplestiltskin smiled.

 

 

 

 


End file.
